


Wentworth HR

by WentworthHR



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WentworthHR/pseuds/WentworthHR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clandestine machinations of the Governors and Human Resources Manager at your favourite correctional compound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The appointment of Erica Davidson

We tend to frame Erica Davidson’s employment at Wentworth in the context of its termination, and the events that led directly to this. For every such conclusion, there is a beginning and a middle, each juncture shaped by its own HR processes. I can identify a number of critical points at which I could have acted to salvage something of Erica’s career, or moderate the inevitable organisational response to her transgressions, but I did quite the reverse. 

From some perspectives, my actions at the end of Erica’s time with us would be considered all the more egregious given that I created her role and contrived her appointment. I am reassured by the knowledge that, if subjected to legal scrutiny, Wentworth’s decisions in respect of Erica would be considered within the range of reasonable responses.

My proposal that we recruit a Prisoner Advocate was the outcome of a discussion I had with my counterpart at Walford. She had clear evidence that the introduction of educational initiatives had led to significant improvements at the men’s facility: a reduction in drug-related admissions to medical, fewer violent assaults, and a three-fold increase in library book usage. Channing was easily persuaded as the Board were keen to support programmes targeted at lowering Wentworth’s high rate of recidivism. Meg was sceptical, but only in the way she typically disparaged anything that did not involve systematised control and two contrasting sets of uniforms. 

Erica’s background in law rather than either education or corrections meant that we would ordinarily have ruled her out at the long list stage. The faultless text and the watermark on her application, while they made me curious about her, were insufficient. She fulfilled just two of the twelve essential criteria for the position and, despite the inordinate amount of time I spent re-reading those perfectly-sequenced clauses, I could not justify calling her to interview. That afternoon, I recognised the name instantly when she introduced herself over the phone. 

‘The ad indicates that applicants can discuss the role with you, I was wondering if now would be convenient?’ 

The ‘informal chat’, ostensibly understood as an aide to potential applicants, is a wildly crude workplace phenomenon that sits outside the usual precepts of good recruitment practice. It is an off-grid terrain of unstructured questioning where early, subjective opinions become, to our minds, facts. In this process, we each have a type of employee to whom our decision-making is partial. For me, that type is Erica. 

As our conversation meandered from her career to Wentworth and back, everything Erica contributed suggested wealth and education. There was also a depth in her tone that implied composure and, I thought, probable height. The plain truth is that I am attracted to these manifestations of privilege, and my choice of sector was, in part, a conscious move to avoid women whose effortless class distracts me. I refocused this line of thinking on the professional task at hand: ‘You understand that this would be a very different environment from a law practice?’ 

‘I accept that, but I represent a diverse range of clients. I’m party to a …broad range of behaviours, and the role can require me to meet with my clients in situ rather than in the office…’ Her control of the deliberate ambiguity, and the imagery constructed in my mind from the insinuations in her tone gave rise to one thought: I have to work with this woman. 

‘Arguably the only thing that differentiates my clients from the women of Wentworth is the financial capital required to win a legal case on a technicality.’ Erica: determined and unflinching, who sees the bad behaviour of others through the lens of her own professional success. 

I spoke to Channing immediately after the call. He was typically direct: ‘Get her in.’ then: ‘I bet she’s hot’ accompanied by a fucking wink. I never know what to do when he does this. This is a mode of speaking and thinking that I should highlight as unacceptable. I hesitate, conscious of the hypocrisy. I do not know whether I refrain from similarly speculating on Erica’s likely physical appearance out loud because I realise this is wholly inappropriate and irrelevant to her ability to fulfil the role, or because I am a lesbian who has been conditioned to be cautious around the topic of desirability in the workplace. At times I decide that Channing may be offering clumsy but well-intentioned reassurance regarding my sexuality. In my usual confusion, I responded by saying ‘Derek’ in a tone so softly admonishing, it could have meant anything. 

Meg was scheduled to attend Erica’s formal interview, but sent Vera, who arrived somewhat flustered with a stack of half-finished rosters. The three of us, Channing, Vera and I adhered to protocol in assessing Erica’s answers to the job-related criteria although, at one point when Erica touched her neck, I noticed Channing put a tick on his sheet against absolutely nothing. 

‘Some of the women will demand more of your attention than others; what would be your approach to these women and to those who are more reluctant to engage with the initiatives you introduce?’ I had not interviewed with Vera before. Her steely understatement provided a sensible balance to the louche arrangement Channing was affecting on his chair and the easy connection I had with Erica from our prior conversation. 

‘I think it is a question of providing all of the women with an entitlement; some will be more inclined to take advantage of this than others.’ Erica looked confidently at each of us in turn. ‘My aim would be that the programmes improve the prospects and outlook of every woman here, and that there will be particular success stories that Wentworth could use in its public relations.’ At that stage in our questioning, none of us had pursued the issues that Erica would foreseeably face in her work with the ‘more inclined’. 

Throughout the selection process, Erica’s cultivation of a rapport with me was faultless. I was flattered to the extent that, without identifiably breaking the rules, I fitted the process and outcome around her. I know now that her attentiveness to me was part of her design to secure the role, and nothing more. The first point at which I sensed I had been used in this way was the instant after she had verbally accepted the job offer. Unusually, this exchange happened in person. I had arranged for Erica’s documents to be scanned once the interview was complete, deliberately keeping her on-site while I secured Channing’s confirmation of the decision. Erica’s mobile had rung. 

‘I’m so sorry, it’s my fiancé, Mark. Would you mind if I took this? I can’t wait to tell him!’ There was something changed in Erica’s regard of me in that moment that told me this went beyond the usual, easy, heteronormative positioning of a partner in a conversation. I had the sense that Erica was distancing herself from me, knowingly. There was also something that didn’t quite make sense to me, a cue I had overlooked or misread. I tracked this quickly to the absence of a ring: not my oversight, I thought, her foresight. 

‘Vera said you’d appointed the one that rocked up in the Manolo Blahniks.’ Meg had caught me looking down the corridor at Erica, whose face was contorted, the conversation with the fiancé evidently not quite progressing as planned. ‘You and a lawyer: how exactly is that going to work?’ Of course, she’ll know the law alright…’ We saw Erica splay the fingers of her free hand with frustration at the unseen Mark. ‘But you know us. My money’s on you’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's no secret that I started out as an Erica fangirl.  
> This is my exposure of the paucity inherent in many selection processes.


	2. Meg Jackson

It is generally assumed that I report to the governor; in fact, I report to the Board, and my remit is to further the best interests of the facility. As such, the challenge and prerogative of my role is that I am variously required to support, counsel, warn, protect or remove governors. I act according to my professional judgement on the governor’s competence. Of the three governors I have worked with at Wentworth, it is Meg that I miss. Where Erica foundered through inexperience and Joan sought to control me, Meg demonstrated the most proficiency in using the HR function, or rather me specifically, to her professional advantage. 

In most instances, this was the sensible advantage of compliance. Meg would never have placed us at risk of litigation for constructive dismissal as Erica and Joan have: faced with the drug-smuggling literacy tutor or Bridget Westfall’s relationship with Franky Doyle, Meg would have consulted me. Together, we would have taken the necessary time to conduct a suitably thorough and fair investigation. This isn’t to say we would not have built in space for the cornered employee to suggest their own departure; there would still have been resignations, but we would have been scrupulous in our process and above reproach. Such is the craft of HR.

It was this adherence to procedure, alongside her intuitive lead in operational decision-making that earned Meg the trust and respect of her officers. It was the deftness with which she manoeuvred me within the context of her relationship with Matt Fletcher that forged my admiration for her. 

I already suspected that Meg was having an extra-marital affair with Fletch. It is a further part of the unwritten skill set of HR that such things are identified. There is no hard and fast rule on whether intra-staff complexities should be brought to the attention of the Board, or even Derek Channing. Again, part of the clandestine function of HR is to gauge the propensity of such liaisons to hurl the organisation into disarray or conversely, and somewhat perversely, to galvanise those employees to work harder. Problematically, most relationships are a heady combination of both these phenomena, and the task becomes that of distinguishing when it is time to act to avert calamity. 

Meg knew this perfectly. The morning of the day that I had decided I would talk to her about Fletch, Meg approached me first. By ‘confiding’ in me, Meg was both genuinely seeking my viewpoint on her professional footing, and also, quite consciously, implicating me. Had I spoken to Channing before this confession, I would have absolved myself, but I would also have unnecessarily compromised the running of the compound and irreparably damaged my working relationship with Meg. Instead, my overarching aim of doing what was right for the facility, coupled with Meg’s plot-perfect timing, led me to complicity. 

‘We’re careful. I’m fairly sure Channing knows.’ Meg’s speech was measured. ‘I thought you should know too. Is it a problem?’ 

I always admired Meg’s transactional brevity. I liked the honesty underpinning Erica’s unforced outbursts and Joan’s unparalleled causticity, but Meg’s enviable syntactical directness was central to her hold on power. 

‘Should I be worried, Meg?’ At this, Meg smiled. Once, when we were out after work, Meg had impersonated me: ‘Should you accept this extra responsibility, then progression to the next pay grade would be possible’ she had said, with heavy emphasis, and the others had immediately laughed. Meg had smiled warmly at me, squeezed my hand and whispered ‘Don’t change.’ The next day, I had one of those hangovers where you feel rather blissful. I realised that what I liked so much was that I was a better me around Meg.

‘No,’ she exhaled heavily, ‘you don’t need to worry. I will tell you if you need to know anything’. We both knew that there would be a time to worry, a point where the truth ruptured into organisational consciousness, where people were affected, distracted, and where standards of work were consequently placed at risk. In that instant, without saying anything further, Meg and I made a pact. It was an undertaking to maintain normality, to be cautious and watchful, and to accept the roles we would need to enact at the moment when the affair seeped out of its concealment. 

I readied myself quite happily for the inevitable fallout, not because I like drama. I had planned everything I would say to the Board, I lay in bed rehearsing the operational justifications for my course of inaction following Meg’s disclosure. And, yes, my spare room was ready. You can stay with me, Meg. Just until things are sorted with Will.

This fondly constructed outcome never occurred. I knew as soon as I heard the alarm that day; that dragging, instinctive dread that even stalwart rationalists can feel in their insides. I directed my grief towards compassionately-informative emails, and the paperwork necessary for the release, to Will, of Meg’s death in service benefit. I lavished the most effort on the drafting of a new job description unapologetically based on Meg’s approach and accomplishments. My officious default eulogy to the governor taken from us before time.


	3. The resignation of Erica Davidson

That Erica and Franky Doyle were attracted to one another was widely known and not, in itself, anything unusual. Every governor, every officer, has their favourites, and the corrections sector would cease to function were HR to intervene every time two sets of eyes locked. On each occasion that Linda Miles would find some spurious reason to visit my office and ‘incidentally’ remark 'I’ve just seen Erica and Doyle fingering some books and studying one another, or was it the other way around', I would barely react. 

There was a line, and it was universally known that the penalties for crossing the line were harsh. The problem with the line is that it is not a point one reaches on a horizontal plain: rather, it is on a diagonal, a juncture on a long, inexorable slide downwards. The momentum of attraction will pull you past the point before you can stop yourself. Your descent will be accelerated if there is someone at the top of the slide to give you a push. 

There were clear signs that Erica and Franky’s attraction to one another was escalating. On one such occasion, Erica was in a state of agitation, pacing around the office and repeatedly checking her hair in the reflection of the glass between our offices. I opened her Outlook calendar and saw that she had blanked out an hour with ‘Private’ as the title. Unless she was heading off-site, this was beyond pointless, given the glass and the fact that you need to walk through HR to access the governor’s office. 

Erica appeared in the doorway ‘I need two cups of coffee…’

‘You’re in luck, just made some’ said my assistant, continuing to focus on her screen but nodding towards the fresh coffee. 

‘No, I want them from the coffee shop’. That little crease in the bridge of her nose and the softening of her voice when she isn’t quite getting her own way. She folded her arms: in her silk aubergine blouse, she was a picture of corporate petulance. The coffee shop is a ten minute drive from the compound. Some of us pass it on the way to work, but it is a return journey that can obliterate a lunch break. My assistant continued her pretence of work, waiting for my response. 

What I should have done was to talk to Erica privately. I ought to have set out, in plain terms, how she was embarking on a dangerous course. Would this have stopped her falling for Franky? Probably not, but it would have been the right thing to do. Evidently the wrong thing would be to encourage or facilitate the burgeoning rapport between the curious governor and an inmate. Additionally, on a point of organisational and professional principle, HR departments are not there to fetch hot fucking beverages.  
‘I’ll go. Tall lattes with caramel shots?’ I smiled. 

‘Yes! Two. And thank you!’ Erica beamed at me.

Channing had been ready much earlier to take Erica to task over the relationship; I had persuaded him to allow her more time ‘to see sense’. I did this in part because her undoing would be all the more dramatic and also for the vicarious thrill their attraction gave me.

On what would turn out to be Erica’s last day in post, I didn’t see what happened in the corner of the office, but the sudden ‘Get out!’ alerted me and I glimpsed Franky push Erica out of sight. Silence. The silence of intimacy. Then Franky’s exit, the way she had paused and closed her eyes to preserve a memory. 

I envied them though, their sheer enjoyment of being anywhere near each other, and the roughness of their desire, however brief. I stood, contemplating going into the office to confront Erica. Would her clothes be askew? I considered the possibilities of those missing seconds: had they kissed? Had they held one another? Had Franky’s hand touched Erica’s breasts through her dark blue silk top? I heard the door to the governor’s bathroom open and close: I went to see Channing. 

We didn’t invite Erica to a formal meeting, instead we had a without prejudice discussion: a quick and dirty, cards on the table exchange which I nonetheless had recorded, and then transcribed. 

Transcript of meeting with Erica Davidson 

H: Right, OK Erica, I’ll get right to the point: I saw you and Doyle kissing.  
E: No! I (…)  
C: [over speaking] Fucking hell, Erica.  
H: I also saw Doyle touching you in an intimate manner. Specifically (…)  
E: [over-speaking] No, that isn’t what you saw.  
H: (…) specifically her hand was between your legs (…)  
[sound of male clearing throat]  
E: Can’t you see she is just making this up? (…) This is just one of her fantasies! [shouting]  
H: Oh? One of mine. Are you sure about that? (…) Erica, can you explain the contents of two files saved on your desktop? Their names are ‘Yard’ and ‘H block’ (…)  
E: [over-speaking] They are files of of CCTV footage that seemed relevant at the time to our ongoing investigations into the supply route of drugs into and around the facility.  
H: Right, well, I’ve viewed the contents of those files (…)  
[sound of sarcastic laughter]  
H: The file named ‘Yard’ comprises over 19 minutes of footage exclusively of Franky Doyle and Kim Chang together, while ‘H block’ (…)  
E: [Over-speaking] I have already told you, this was relevant to the investigation [high tone]  
C: For Christ’s sake Erica, they’re just touching each other up the whole way through.  
[sound of knocking and door opening. Female voice ‘Oh sorry’]  
H: Not now, please Linda.  
E: I know this doesn’t (…) look good, but really you have to accept that you have very little that is material here and that you could rely in court.  
H: Erica, you are familiar with the terms of your contract?  
E: What? (…) Of course I am.  
H: So you’ll be aware that your senior management contract contains clauses relating to the use of company credit cards and also to the issue of reputational damage?  
E: Yes?  
H: This is a (…) record of your account. If you have a look here, on 31st May this year, you used your company credit card in an establishment called The Velvet Curtain.  
[unclear at 02:10:14]  
H: This is a club which advertises itself to those interested in exploring um (…) as I understand it, submission and domination (……) Erica, if the press found out that the governor of Wentworth, who heads up a correctional facility had (…)  
E: [Over-speaking] Alright! [high tone] Alright.  
(……)  
E: Will you accept my resignation? [quiet tone]  
C: I’ll leave you to sort the fine details. And we’ll talk later. [sound of chair moving across floor] Erica. [door opening and closing]  
(………)  
H: So (…) we’ll need your resignation in writing and I will confirm any leave owing to you, along with a final statement of your pension (…)  
E: Do you enjoy your job? Do you actually enjoy doing this to people?  
H: Every bit as much as you enjoyed zooming in on Franky Doyle.  
E: You disgust me [unclear at 02:48:15] this is about you, not what I have or haven’t done (…)  
H: [Over-speaking] No, you disgust yourself, but it’s easier for you right now to blame me.  
(……)  
E: Oh fuck (…) what am I going to tell (s.l. Mark at 03:07:79)?  
H: What we’ve discussed will stay in this room, provided we have your resignation in writing (…) you can tell him what you like.  
E: You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you? [angry tone] You make it sound so simple [sound of chair moving]  
H: Look (…)  
E: [Over-speaking] You could have helped (…) you could have done something (…) instead of (…) you fucking encouraged me, you’re just jealous and it’s (…)  
H: [over-speaking] Jealous? [high tone] Of a ten second fumble in the corner?  
E: Yes! [shouting]  
(……)  
E: You know this doesn’t look good on you either.  
H: From where I’m sitting, my career is withstanding your little tourist excursion a whole lot better than yours is [sound of door slamming]

Recording ends 03:31:21


	4. First meeting with Governor Ferguson

Each governor has used a different basis of power in their relationship with HR. Meg would emphasize her operational knowledge: 'You don’t know what it’s like for my officers out there'; Erica attempted to use the technicalities of law: 'I don’t need to prove it Erica, I just need ‘reasonable belief’'. With each new leader, the control base and dynamic must be redefined. This is often a bruising phase for HR. With Joan, there was one brief meeting where a very specific understanding was reached. What prevented my immediate exit, as Joan later documented for the board, was her ‘confidence that the HR function now understands its role and remit with greater clarity’. 

Joan’s personnel file, the first part of her to arrive at the compound, was without blemish; each performance target met or exceeded, every page pristine and in its correct place in the folder. This was not the slightly crumpled and incomplete record that HR departments and line managers ordinarily throw together. Tellingly, each of the individual notes were on the exact same type of paper, suggesting that someone had carefully copied each original to attain a crisp level of uniformity. Or perhaps that the originals had been supplemented. Either way, I found the correctness of the file quite unnerving. It was a relief to place the incongruous folder in the cabinet and slam it shut. 

I watched the decorators cover the red of the governor’s office in a clean, chilling grey. I returned from a day of annual leave to find that my own, adjacent office had been redecorated in the same sombre colour, and that my assistant had resigned. I learnt that she had contacted Joan Ferguson ‘personally’ by phone to complain about the refurbishment. That conversation had left my usually stoic administrator so upset, she left the site and her employment within minutes of the call ending. Many on the compound were eager for the order that the changes suggested; Vera pronouncing that Ferguson was ‘likely to be just what Wentworth needs’, despite her evident disappointment at not securing the top job following my and Channing’s dispatch of Erica. 

On the day of that first meeting, Joan’s appointments were running exactly to time. She had begun very early, and we had not yet spoken. In my efforts to appear busy should she glimpse me through the glass, I opened a number of files, assumed a focused expression, and achieved precisely nothing. I watched the Site Manager, a likeable butch woman in her 50s, leave the governor’s office. When she reached my desk she put her hand on my shoulder not, as I first thought, to reassure me but to steady herself. ‘Good luck in there, love’. I started to wish that I had taken more care that morning. My hands reached up to rectify my hair: too late. 

‘Come through, please.’ Joan stood tall and quite immaculate in between our two offices. As I approached the doorway, rather than step aside, she remained there, taking a brief but perceptible moment to appraise me. ‘Ah yes, I remember you from my interview; the note-taker’. She smiled, moving so that I had to pass close to her to enter the room, my eyes only just level with her perfectly-positioned name badge. Her smell was intoxicating, a clear note of perfume, unadulterated by that which is personal. 

Arranged upon Joan’s otherwise clear desk were three items in obvious readiness for our discussion. These were placed equidistantly and perpendicular to the desk. Joan saw my eyes travel across them; firstly a pencil, an HRM text book, and finally a pile of letters. 

‘You’ve read the correspondence Erica Davidson intended for Doyle’. A statement rather than a question.

‘Yes.’

She leaned a little towards me, ‘Rather good, aren’t they?’ In that instant, she seemed to be both amused and to be genuinely sharing with me. Before I could respond, her demeanour and tone shifted ‘I trust you haven’t retained any of the correspondence…at home?’ 

‘No, I…’ How could she know? 

‘Good. I think it’s important that we established that.’ What we appeared to have established was the zero sum of our sexual orientation and Joan’s unnerving ability to identify lapses in professionalism. With Meg and Erica, my sexuality had always made me feel vulnerable, or rather, they had made conscious of this. My work ethic had remained without taint. Joan, in two sentences, had turned my career identity on its head. 

‘Now,’ she tapped the text book ‘concerning our working relationship. I think you may be under some misapprehension of your role in my facility’. 

‘I report to the board.’ We regarded one another in a conscious silence, each waiting for the other to relent first. Although I didn’t speak, I gave myself away, my eyes involuntarily travelling upwards to her immaculate hair. Joan shook her head slightly whilst smiling and moving the pencil a fraction of a centimetre. 

‘Well, I think that is a technicality that we will review now.’ She turned deftly to a page in the text: a familiar model of HR types. ‘You see, you people aspire to these upper quadrants. You are seduced by notions of having a strategic role, you believe yourselves ‘change makers’, or at the least ‘advisors’. I know that you understand that these are aspirations. You know that your role is to serve. She pointed at the bottom right quadrant, ‘You are a handmaiden. A service provider at my behest. What was it you said in your master’s dissertation? Ah yes, that the HR function acts as once as police and as administrator for the organisation, you called it a ‘curious duality’. I require you to act as my police and my administrator, so really you see, we are quite well aligned, you and I.’ 

I attempted to speak, Joan silencing me with her raised hand ‘And you won’t replace that assistant. We will be maintaining much tighter budgetary control and you will work in that office alone.’ She gestured tautly through the glass. Despite all there was to take in, I noticed her short fingernails, her graceful hands. Realising the obviousness of my gaze from her resulting pause, my eyes returned slowly and unapologetically to hers. 

‘None of this changes my reporting line.’ While my verbal response remained clear and measured, I could feel a pleasant yet shameful discomfort, in my clothes, on that chair. Everything about Joan Ferguson’s impeccable appearance made me feel rumpled and unkempt. 

‘Perhaps not. But your record to date puts you in rather a delicate situation’. Without once taking her eyes from mine, Joan removed a file from a drawer. ‘I’ve taken your data on absence, labour turnover, cost of hiring and litigation…’ she placed a number of graphs in front of me ‘…here they are against the benchmarks of the sector.’ The board loved metrics. Joan’s analysis, though uncontextualised, would be hard to counter. ‘This demonstrates an inexcusable litany of poor performance. Don’t you agree?’ 

‘Channing and the board have never had an issue with my work.’ By this stage, my resistance felt perfunctory. I looked down, a substantial loose strand of hair falling awkwardly across my face from a failed pin. As I raised my hand to move it, Joan reached over her desk, nearly touching the errant lock of hair. I didn’t move. ‘Sort that.’ I tucked the hair behind my ear, noting the disdainful way she inspected her fingers. I could still feel where they had nearly brushed my skin. I felt lightheaded, slightly nauseous from a heady conundrum of career crisis and, unmistakably, desire.

‘If you report to me, I wouldn’t then see the need to show the board…your failings.’ I nodded. The first governor to control HR; the first to control me. ‘A couple of further points,’ her eyes surveyed me. ‘That blouse; I think you can do rather better than that. For those not in uniform, careful decisions regarding appropriate attire must be made. Don’t you think?’ 

‘I really…I mean you can’t…’ 

‘I think I can.’ Joan clicked a minimised tab on her screen. I looked on, realization rendering me immobile and wordless, as she began to read from an online profile I had created. ‘She will have certain…standards she expects me to adhere to…’ She regarded me with a look of triumph. ‘And much of this, it appears, from your work laptop. Shall I go on?’ 

‘No…please.’ I looked at her. I had, in all likelihood, been communicating online with Joan Ferguson for weeks. That one individual, her exquisite phrasing: the one that had me the moment she logged on. ‘I understand…how it will be and… what you expect.’ 

She stood, then walked around the desk so that she was behind my chair. Eyes closed, head down, I gave in to the blurring of my professional and private lives. I heard a quiet brush of fabric but felt nothing. Was that her hand just above my neck? 

‘Then you will go home now and return presented in a manner that meets our agreed criteria.’

I stood, still not turning to face her. ‘How did you know I wouldn’t just resign?’ 

‘Why would you resign...’ she said my full name, the syllables in her mouth fracturing any last reserve that I had ‘when we both know you are only just becoming aware of your potential?’


	5. Disciplinary

Joan had scheduled the disciplinary meeting, my disciplinary meeting, to coincide with the women’s curfew. ‘It will lessen the likelihood of anyone disturbing us’ Joan had said four days ago as she handed me the letter. Four days of waiting, of not knowing what would happen. Four days of tracing the ink of her signature on the letter with my fingers.  
We sat, in silence, until the second hand swept past the twelve on Joan’s clock. ‘Right: we shall begin.’ Joan selected a pencil and waved her hand in the direction of the Invitation to a Disciplinary letter positioned on the desk in between us. 

‘I see you’ve chosen not to exercise your right to accompaniment at this meeting? No union representative? No colleague?’ Her cold, perfect stare traveled from where she had been scanning my hairline, toward my mouth, whereupon she fleetingly met my eyes again, and down to the exposed skin of my shoulder blades. ‘Of course not, you are HR after all.’ She smiled. ‘Although I did wonder if you may have asked Vera to come along.’ She glanced up, raising her impeccably-shaped eyebrows, inviting a response. 

‘I haven’t, I mean I wouldn’t…we have just been talking about your mentorship…of her and how pleased she is that…’ Joan blinked and smiled: a signal of enough. ‘Sit up straight, please.’

I pushed my shoulders back. My hair was up, as she had specified: tidy; pinned, but this lock, how it falls: keep that. My clothes were all from the stores she had listed: 'This would suit you; buy it in white, grey and sky blue. Never wear anything but the white on Mondays.' 

‘Now, as stated in the letter, the reason for this meeting is to discuss a certain aspect of your work that has fallen below the required standard.’ Her height and the upward tilt of her head meant that her dark eyes were glancing downwards at me. 

‘If this is an issue of under-performance rather than conduct, then you have selected the wrong process.’ HR precepts are hardwired into my reactions; a quirk that Joan Ferguson appeared to enjoy. 

‘Don’t tell me I don’t know the difference between can’t and won’t. This is a matter of conduct and, as such, subject to a disciplinary process. You are quite willfully disobeying me.’ 

‘All you have said in the letter is concerns over approach to filing. I have checked the electronic files and our hard copy records, I’ve spent the last four days meticulously checking…’ Joan held up her hand.

‘The purpose of a disciplinary meeting, rather than to punish, is to agree on improvements in respect of future conduct…now those are your words, not mine, but in the spirit of that rather misguidedly soft approach to human resource management, will you stand up please.’ 

Stood facing Joan, it was only now that my eyes were approximately level with hers. She folded her arms. My eyes were drawn to the slight tapping of her right index finger on her sleeve. 

‘Now, take this letter and place it in the second drawer of the filing cabinet to my left.’ I froze. ‘It’s alright; you have my permission on this occasion.’ 

I walked over to the cabinet, involuntarily closed my eyes, and opened the drawer. I looked in, expecting to see particular items. Nothing. A vanilla emptiness. I placed the letter inside, and closed the drawer. 

‘No! How can you be this obtuse! That is not how it is done! This is precisely why we are here! Every day I am expected to work with your perpetual slamming of the filing cabinets on the other side of that glass!’

‘But…’ 

Joan walked briskly around her desk to stand at my side. She refolded her arms, holding herself away from me. ‘If you are going to attempt a retort, which I highly recommend you do not, then at the very least do not start it with a conjunction.’ 

I remained facing forward, conscious only of her to my left; so close. 

‘Now. Again.’ 

I opened the drawer much more cautiously, the contact of the side runners still producing a distinct, metallic rattle as I drew it towards me. I winced. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Ferguson.’  
‘Is that acceptable?’ I shook my head. Joan had leaned towards me, her face by my left cheek. She inhaled. ‘That fragrance…’ her inscrutable voice was so low and soft, I could not tell if it was entirely the right or wrong perfume. This had been reckless. I held onto the drawer tightly. ‘It suits you. I like it.’ 

‘It’s…’

‘I know what it is. You may continue to wear it. But you’ll check with me in future. Now; you are going to close that drawer with the appropriate amount of care and attention.’ I was conscious of the rise and fall of my breathing. ‘Think.’

I started to move the drawer; that same sound. I stopped. 

Joan returned to her desk. In the periphery of my vision, I saw her take her gloves from her bag. She walked over, positioning herself behind me. I remained exactly where I was, conscious of the rise and fall of my breathing. 

‘If I am to take the time necessary to instruct you, I need your assurances that you will appreciate my efforts.’ Her voice was terse. I nodded. 

I heard her pull the smooth leather over her fingers, first one hand then the other. Her arms encircled mine so that she was also holding the open drawer. I noticed I was trembling. 

‘I need you to feel exactly what I do. Do you understand?’ 

‘Yes.’

I felt her elevate the front end of the drawer and very gently test the angle: too high, the drawer would not move. She lowered it slightly, and I felt the drawer start to slide noiselessly in. As the drawer reached as far in as it would go, Joan pressed me against the cabinet. I stifled a gasp. At first I noticed the seams and buttons of her uniform through the thin fabric of my clothes, the impression of her name badge. I switched my focus to what of her I could feel. 

I knew to make no movement or sound. She took a slight step back, the upper half of her body still pushing me against the drawers. ‘Move.’ she said. I repositioned my feet and bent slightly to fit against her, our top halves leaning more forcefully now, a gap created between my skirt and the cabinet. I saw the gloved fingers on the cabinet tense. 

‘Please…’ I whispered. I saw the gloves disappear as Joan released me. 

‘Stay there’. 

Joan returned to her desk, and sat down. ‘I take it we are both agreed that this matter has been satisfactorily resolved? I see no need for this letter to remain on your official record. Now leave.’ She turned to her computer screen.

I made an anguished sound, somewhere between a groan and a word, adjusted my clothes and walked towards the door. 

‘You understand,’ she was removing the gloves and placing them carefully on the desk, ‘that I will address any further issues of misconduct…robustly? Even in an informal approach, there needs to be an escalation of…interventions for there to be an effect.’

I closed the door, glimpsing Joan pat her hair with one hand whilst taking a sanitizing spray out of her bag with the other. I headed out into the car park and sat in my car, eyes closed, trying to preserve what had just happened. I know now that I am not to ask without permission.


	6. Conference

Joan Ferguson was leading a session at the annual one-day state corrections conference, and I had spent the last two nights working on her presentation. She had supplied the text, along with multiple directions regarding layout, rejecting each version I sent her by immediate return of email.

Slide 18: The correct term is ‘reasonably practicable’. This is a threshold concept and once again I am minded to question the rigour of your professional accreditation.  
What on earth possessed you to introduce a serif font on slide 20? 

Each line admonished and undermined me, yet the promptness of her replies, just knowing that she was there, had me burying screams in my arms. Shortly after 4:00 a.m., Joan accepted the format of the presentation with a curt: 'This will have to do.' I watched her status change to ‘inactive’ on Outlook, and wished she had not gone. 

Arriving at work just a few hours later in the new dark grey dress that Joan had specified, I saw her briefing staff in the office without a trace of tiredness. I tried to take in her poise and the tense, distinctive gesturing of her hands without appearing to be watching. When the officers had filed out, Joan called me into her office. 

‘As you know, each facility ordinarily sends two delegates to the annual conference and Vera will need to take charge here in my absence.’ As she spoke, her dark eyes were evaluating the dress. ‘I have reviewed your last appraisal. Attendance at this event will provide an excellent opportunity in respect of your ongoing development.’ She glanced at the filing cabinet and back to where I was standing. I shifted in my heels. She held my gaze. ‘I’ll drive.’ 

The morning of the conference, Joan specified that we would be leaving the compound at 6.00. I was parked by 5.20; ready, exhilarated, and rehearsing ways to meet her approval. I meant to appear distracted by something in my car when she arrived. As her polished saloon pulled up next to my hatchback, the look she gave me through the windows lead me to surrender all pretence of focusing on anything that wasn’t her. 

I sank into the leather passenger seat of Joan’s car and breathed in its clean scent. Watching Joan’s gloved hand changing gear, and catching close-up glimpses of her perfect complexion, I realised that there was so much of her to take in, words would be obtrusive. 

‘Shall we have some music? You can select something.’ 

I switched on the music system. A cello filled the car from all four corners. Damien Rice – Volcano ran the text on the display. 

‘No, not that.’ Joan pressed through several playlists. ‘Choose from here.’ 

I clicked again and again, not recognising any of the pieces. I had to select something. I stopped at Dido and Aeneas. 

‘You like Purcell?’ Her eyes were amused. It was OK to smile back. I realised I had never felt this happy. 

We drove on wordlessly. I leant back on the seat, my head inclined so that I could watch Joan, the soft noise of her gloves and the smooth mechanical hum of the car combining perfectly with the opera. 

A call came through. Vera’s voice, still tending to staccato but gaining in confidence under Joan’s leadership. I listened as governor and deputy worked through a pre-set list of operational items. 

‘We do have an issue that week with the rosters…we turned down Linda Miles’ annual leave request and she’s now claiming she has a series of hospital appointments.’ 

‘What do you suggest, Vera?’

I saw Joan check the time, and place her hand firmly on my thigh.

‘Well, I suppose I could ask Linda to produce evidence of these appointments.’ Vera’s earnest tone and focus on work emphasised the wrongness of what I was going to allow Joan to do: a wrongness, I noted, that was intensifying my arousal.

Joan’s hand moved towards my knee, stopping at the hemline of my dress. 

‘If she does produce any such evidence, be sure to check its provenance.’ Joan’s voice remained perfectly level as she reached between my legs. 

‘Yes, governor. Thank you.’ 

They ended the call. Joan removed her hand to press the indicator. 

‘But I thought the conference was…’ Joan silenced me with a look. 

We left the main road, and turned into an industrial estate. Joan drove into the driveway of a deserted unit, past a row of disused buildings, and into an empty car park. She switched off the engine, and I sensed her pause. 

‘You did well during the phone call. You learn quickly.’ She unfastened her seatbelt and traced her gloved finger along the side of my neck. ‘If you make a sound, you are no use to me.’ 

My eyes met hers to show her I understood. 

I felt the leather return to my thigh, her fingers gently reaching under my dress, moving up, right up, to touch the cotton of my underwear. ‘Tell me what you think it is that you want from me.’ 

Joan’s movements stopped.

‘I…’

‘Tell me, or we leave now for the conference.’

‘I…want…’ The caresses resumed, gentle, insistent, expert. 

‘Is this what you want?’ the press of her finger intensified. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Don’t you want…more?’ 

I dared to look at her. Her teasing continued. I tried to think what to say. Please touch me properly, please just pull the fabric to one side and fuck me. 

Then I realised. ‘I want whatever it is that you want.’ 

I felt her middle finger push hard against the cotton. I tried to stay still, knowing that any movement from me, the material would shift, and Joan would penetrate me. I knew this wasn’t my decision. 

Joan retracted her hand. ‘Are you not ashamed at how your body gives you away? At what I can feel?’ 

I shrank back in the seat. ‘I’m sorry…I don’t know if or how you want me to answer that.’ 

Joan was looking at the tips of her fingers, at the traces of viscous fluid on the leather, her expression one of disgust. 

‘Are there wipes? In there?’ I pointed to the glove compartment. Joan nodded. I took them out, and cleaned her gloved hand with no less than four wipes. I placed these in my own bag. 

She started the car. ‘We’re making good time, I think.’ She glanced at me, with a faint but perceptible smile. I switched on the opera.


	7. Reward

The corrections conference was immensely enjoyable. Sat together, the presentations on hazardous waste and recidivism washed warmly over me as I focused on the slight touch of Joan’s uniform against my side. When the discussion moved onto budgets, we lent towards each other to share our congratulations that Wentworth was the best-performing facility in the state. ‘This will not go unrewarded’ Joan said quietly. I reeled in a heady mix of careerist satisfaction and anticipation: we would be driving home together soon. 

At the end of the formal sessions, Joan strode past the other delegates and the refreshments, out to her car with me in her wake. ‘Networking’ she pronounced, ‘is the preserve of those daunted by the prospect of having to process the substantive content of the day for themselves.’ I walked eagerly around to the passenger door. ‘No, come here.’ Joan opened the boot. It was pristine and empty, aside from two small cases. They appeared to be new. 

‘Take this. We are staying here, in the accommodation.’ Joan’s tone was perfunctory. 

‘Why…’ 

‘There is a formal conference dinner at 7.00. You will find everything you need in there. These are your keys. I’m in 408; you’ll be at my room ready at 6.50.’ She shut the boot and began to walk back to the centre. Hesitating, and without turning around, gave me one final instruction: ‘Do not come earlier.’ 

I spent the intervening hour and thirty-four minutes preparing myself with the carefully chosen items in the case and, using the hotel towels, muffling the excited sounds I knew I would not be allowed to make in her presence. Perhaps, I reasoned, if I could get all of these noises out now, Joan would not stop when… when we do whatever it is that we are doing. I tried to ignore the fragment of rational thinking that questioned how I was acting. I want to be hers I reminded myself. 

I knocked the door at precisely 6.50. Joan answered, unchanged, but without her tie and uniform jacket. Her hair had come loose in places, as if she had been playing with it. She was Governor Ferguson as I had not seen her before. I realized I never wanted to see her wear anything else; just her work attire, at different stages of deconstruction. 

‘I knew the dress would suit you. I thought you could wear it at work, with different accessories.’

‘It’s lovely, thank y…’ 

Joan shook her head. She remained in the doorway. ‘I have been inundated with emails since that talk earlier. I have no desire to spend my evening repeating it all again. I’ve booked us in for dinner at 9.00.’ She held the door open for me. 

Joan’s jacket and tie were placed neatly on a chair, her case and bag neatly arranged at one side of the room. A short book by Peter Weiss with an extremely long German title was placed on the bedside cabinet. ‘It’s performed from time to time.’ She smiled. ‘You would enjoy it.’ I felt shy and exposed in a way that I had not earlier in the car when I had cleaned Joan’s glove. ‘I’ll…I’ll take you one day.’ I noted how uncomfortable Joan seemed with the kindness of her response. 

Moving briskly to the desk in the room, Joan opened her laptop. ‘I thought we could perhaps use the time available to talk through your suggestions regarding the pay structure.’ The desk, which doubled functionally as a dressing table, had a large mirror behind it. I was able to watch Joan from behind and her reflection simultaneously. My eyes moved from one image to the other, taking her in. 

‘This is the file you sent with your proposals. Explain these to me.’ Joan gestured towards the rather ornate chair, incongruous in the otherwise functionally plain lines of the room. I took my place. In the mirror, Joan stood behind me, her shirt with the crowns on its epaulettes was undone at the first two buttons. I gave the document a cursory glance, returning my eyes to her. 

‘So, we are currently paying each of the officers at the minimum possible within their respective pay bands.’ I paused, waiting to see if Joan would reprimand me for starting a sentence with a deliberately lazy and faintly condescending discourse marker. 

Joan was also looking at the file. Her hands were at her sides, visibly tense, but she offered no response. I continued, ‘You’re remunerating them for each year of service because the state mandates that you have to; you can go beyond this at your discretion.’ 

‘And why would I do that?’ 

‘Because you are in a compliance trap.’ Joan did not move, her eyes met mine again in the reflection. 

‘If you go above the statutory levels by a modest margin, you decide the timings and the amounts that you pay, you aren’t beholden to the state. You would have more control.’ I knew this assertion would have consequences. 

She moved towards me. ‘You are familiar with the concept of total reward?’ 

I nodded. ‘Then you’ll know that pay is only part of what the employee receives.’ Joan lifted me to my feet. ‘I value my staff’. She placed each of my hands in turn on the desk. ‘I provide you all with opportunities and recognition that Jackson and Davidson never afforded you.’ She slowly unzipped the dress which fell off my left shoulder. I tried to steady my breathing. With a slight pull, the dress slid to the floor. 

Joan took two blue latex gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. Her left hand swept upwards, across my body, lightly caressing me through the silk underwear I had found wrapped in the case. ‘Each member of my staff, in their own way, is as wet as I suspect you are now.’ 

Her left hand moved into the front of the silk knickers, her middle finger seeking and finding my clit. ‘You are attempting to apply external notions of best practice to my facility.’ The pressure changed as she tilted her finger, catching me forwards and back through the latex with the tip of her nail. I put all of my effort into remaining quiet. 

‘You know that reward is driven by internal need.’ Joan’s right hand moved behind me, past the edge of the knickers, reaching down and forwards between my legs. ‘Reward is contingent, a question of best fit.’ I felt two of her fingers ease fully into me, curling in a beckoning move to stroke the back wall of my cunt with each thrust. She withdrew her fingers, the rhythm of her nail on my clit uninterrupted. ‘You also understand that reward should be incremental’. 

In answer, holding her gaze in the mirror, I shifted my legs a little further apart.


	8. Risk assessment

The HR room was usable only as a means to access the Governor’s office while work to remove redundant cabling in the ceiling void was undertaken. While this was part of a scheduled process of site renovation, Joan had escalated the date of this phase in order to test me. Since the conference, when she had fucked me so expertly in her hotel room, we had not spoken. 

I knew that I had to wait. When we passed briefly and wordlessly in the corridor one morning, I saw her eyes momentarily drawn to the tailored darts in my dress that accentuated my bust, and knew that everything would be perfect if I could maintain the required level of restraint for the desired length of time. 

At 6.48 pm on the third Tuesday after Joan had first taken me so consummately, as I saved and closed the policy documents I had been working on, my resolve was rewarded. I received an email reply from her to an old, generic, all internal staff email: 

Re: Display screen equipment assessment  
Now would be convenient. 

Using a folder of archived annual leave requests, I stifled a scream. 

I had missed the unique smell of her office: that enticing mix of her fragrance with the sombre, crisp notes of sanitizing gel. Joan did not look at me as I entered.

‘Yes, now this won’t take long, will it?’ With a pencil, she waved at her screen. Those immaculate cuffs, the same shirt cuffs, perhaps, whose edges had become soaked and transparent in the hotel room. 

Hesitantly, I walked behind the desk, moving into the small space between Joan and the back wall. I edged towards the screen, inadvertently knocking the large Perspex state corrections logo on the wall. Irritated, Joan focused her attention on her screen while I centred the picture. 

I consulted the sheet on my clipboard. ‘First point. Are you able to place your feet flat on the floor?’ 

‘Evidently.’ Joan turned to face me. ‘I’d have thought this tick-box process rather underuses your skills.’ She smiled, the small lines at the corners of her eyes suggesting genuine amusement. 

‘It does, but you restructured my assistant on your first day in post. ’ I looked at Joan’s head and the height of her screen; it felt curious to examine her physicality with legitimate, professional intent. 

‘This needs to be higher.’ I tapped the screen where three juxtaposed CCTV views played grainy footage of Vera frowning at paperwork, Bridget Westfall in a corridor, and a furtive Linda Miles looking directly at the camera. 

‘Is that necessary? I think you’d agree that I am not constrained to work at this desk for prolonged periods. Or are you suggesting that there is a manifest fault with my posture?’ Joan’s eyes swept down to my nipples, now visibly pert through the silk bra and sheer blouse she stipulated I wear with this particular skirt. I raised my clipboard. 

‘No! You're, I mean, it’s quite simple, we’ll just order a riser…’ I lifted up Joan’s screen and checked her height to gauge the size required, my eyes travelling involuntarily to the neat, carefully hidden pins holding her bun in place. 

‘You are aware that hair is not ordinarily a factor in ergonomic calculations?’ 

‘Of course, I…’ At the slight shrug in my response, a cable dislodged and the screen turned blank. Before I could grasp it, the wire slid downwards, through the desk. 

‘I was under the impression that this exercise was intended to enhance my working environment, not render it inoperable.’

‘Sorry, I’ll just…’ I knelt down. Joan didn’t move, leaving me little room. Peering under the desk, I saw the unconnected lead positioned jauntily on the edge of the hard drive. As my fingers touched the cable, I succeeded only in pushing it away. It clacked behind the black casing. I looked up at Joan. She was studying me.

On all fours, I reached further into the recesses of the desk, blindly using my hand to feel for the errant wire among a mass of other cabling. As I groped for the right lead, I felt a light touch on the back of my stockinged leg.

‘As you are evidently so well versed in health and safety protocol, tell me, what is your assessment of the risks involved with this current situation?’Her finger-tip had reached the top of the stocking, tracing the lace. 

I gathered control of my thoughts. ‘There is a risk that we may be seen.’

‘Then our next course of action must be to mitigate that risk.’ 

She stood, and there was a momentary pause in which I knew she would be adjusting her uniform. I heard her smart, purposeful footsteps walk out of the office, along the corridor, the click of a lock, and the footsteps return. I remained under the desk, awaiting her instruction, fearing that any sign of presumptuousness on my part could abruptly curtail our time together. She walked briskly, returning to her seat. I looked around to see the dark grey of her uniform contrasting with the blue latex gloves she was now wearing. 

‘The workplace safety legislation requires provision of information training, and instruction.’ Joan undid the button and zip of my skirt. I lifted my knees compliantly to enable her to remove it. ‘To that end, explain to me your understanding of why I am wearing gloves.’ My eyes closed, I felt her slowly pull my knickers down over my sheer stockings. ‘Your use of the gloves constitutes me as a hazard.’ Her finger moved briefly on the inside of my thigh and withdrew. ‘They signify that I have the propensity…to cause you harm.’ 

I watched over my shoulder as she examined the liquid now on the latex. ‘That particular risk is never anything other than abundant in your case.’ 

Parting my legs further, Joan looked down, then back to my eyes. ‘How would you apply the hierarchy of control to this risk?’ 

‘By using the personal protective equipment, you’re demonstrating that you are controlling rather than eliminating the...hazard’ At the periphery of my vision, I saw Joan purposefully fold the ring and index fingers of her right hand over her middle finger, taking time to satisfy herself with the positioning. 

‘You are aware that that elimination is an option I retain?’ Joan watched intently as she entered me with the three gloved fingers. I succeeded in remaining quiet, my whole body tense.

‘Yes?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Until we reach such a point, I take my duty to develop you and to protect both of us from harm very seriously.’ Joan reached round, two fingers of her left hand holding open the lips surrounding my clit, one finger testing the wetness there. 

‘Understand that this…’ the tip of her finger made the gentlest of touches to the underside of my clit ‘…is to facilitate safe access and egress.’ I heard her exhale as her fingers pressed with ease further into me.

Joan moved to the floor, parting my legs wide with her knees to kneel between them. ‘Principles of manual handling teach us not to stretch, rather we must utilise the core strength of our bodies’. I felt the warm fabric of her uniform press against the backs of my legs with each, deep thrust of her hand, the tip of her left middle finger almost laconic in its intermittent semi-circling of my clit: the absence of her touch here rendered the occasional, unexpected pressure almost intolerable. I struggled not to come with each glancing stroke and with each minor adjustment of the fingers that were exposing my clit. 

‘There are occasions…’ Joan withdrew her hand ‘when the upper thresholds of what we think we can reasonably manage…’ I scrunched my eyes with the challenge of remaining quiet ‘…can safely be revised.’ Joan had added a fourth finger, the now unerring attentions of the finger on my clit enabling her to fuck me with increasing, base intensity. I felt the rise of an orgasm I could no longer suppress as, knuckle-deep inside me, Joan gave instructions that I remove the glove from her left hand, reached between us, and unzipped.


	9. Adam

Vera and I had been working on a new shift pattern; the design phase was relatively straightforward, there was a clear operational justification for amending the times of the staff changeovers and the number of officers allocated to each area at a given time. Specifically, there had been a perceptible spike in the number of accidental steam-press burns and a rather alarming bill for broken chairs in the education room. Governor Ferguson had tasked Vera with ‘ameliorating this poor reflection’ of her management competence.

The ever-attentive Deputy Governor had produced everything I had advised her to, she’d had that look that people have when they are absorbing everything you say. The level of detail in her proposal and the faded colours of the print outs evidenced that she had been working on this at home. When middle managers respect process, and are prepared to go above and beyond, the cogs of the organisation turn smoothly. It’s a professional turn-on that lends a certain something to my walk.

The more challenging part, as always, had been the consultation with Wentworth’s personnel regarding the changes. After our third, turgid meeting with Linda Miles and her stalwart union rep, I lay my head on the desk of the meeting room.

‘If he had mentioned the fucking Fair Work Act 2009 one more time, I’d have rammed one of these fetching green armchairs directly up his sphincter. And I’d have prepared my own disciplinary letter, it would’ve been worth it.’

‘But that’s it, isn’t it? We can go ahead?’

I looked at Vera’s expectant face. Taking my advice, she had removed her jacket and placed it on the back of the chair before the meeting had commenced. The thin cotton of the shirt revealed the detail of her bra, and breasts that are fuller than the stiff jacket ever suggests. I hoped that she had not registered my glances. I felt guiltily excited for a several reasons I chose not to dwell on or categorise.

‘Yes…I’ll put together the final letter, and you can roster everyone on the new shift rotation from the start of the month.’ Serving her needs, but sanctioning her actions: the curious duality of my role.

‘Thank you…for helping to make this happen.’ A rare smile from Vera, if you exclude the wonky caustic ones that are a feature of most shifts. She looked at me. ‘You’re here as much as I am…we should….do something?’ And so Vera had invited me over, and I had purposely omitted to tell Joan.

I arrived exactly on time, presenting Vera with a bunch of fully-bloomed flowers, their intensity suggesting their finest hour was already on the wane. At the same time, we both noticed the price sticker, indicating that the flowers had been subject to a substantial reduction.

‘Ah, five dollars, you really shouldn’t have.’ We giggled, as I stood, suddenly more awkward around her than I had anticipated. Her hair was down, clipped loosely at one side, waves tumbling over her shoulders. She wore no make-up, and looked stunning. Her thin cardigan hung off her left shoulder, her feet were bare. I had never seen Vera out of her uniform. The stiffness had gone, and she exuded a care-free femininity that I found, to my surprise, quite beguiling. She took hold of my upper arm. ‘Come on through.’ She led me through the hall, at one point squeezing my arm gently with her hand. The hall felt a hundred metres long.

Vera’s kitchen was as tastefully finished as it was under-used: the lack of wear on the utensils and gleaming pans screamed solitude. The fridge, which had no personal, ridiculous crap magnetised to it, almost made me cry out. Realising that I was probably one of very few people, if not the first, to be in the kitchen with Vera since its installation touched me in a place where I rarely feel anything.

I directed an appreciative expression towards the worktop. ‘This is really nice, Vera.’ Both the polite thing to say, and suitably deferent to what it must have cost. ‘Since mum died, I’ve been doing the place up a bit.’

As an HR practitioner, however much of a corporate automaton you appear to be, at some fundamental level you went into the profession because you care about people. I waited to take my cue from her next move. Vera took a brief moment, her eyes moving as she ordered her thoughts, before looking up to meet mine.

‘We bury our parents, that’s the natural order of things. Now I…….’ her tone lifted as she steered me towards the hotplates ‘Am making you my famous spag bol.’ Vera lifted the lid on a disintegrating pile of pasta.

‘Can I just have my pasta with some cheese on it?’

‘Fuck…you don’t eat meat…fuck…sorry…’

‘It’s okay.’ Vera handed me some cheese. I nudged her with my shoulder. ‘Thank you.’ I was conscious of the need to keep the conversation away from work as far as possible. ‘So…how are things…how’s…your love life?’

Vera gave a deep, undisguised sigh. ‘Well, Fletch and I…we’re just friends now…’ she scrutinized me, undecided whether she was talking to a friend or a part of a machine of discipline that would retrospectively admonish her for that brief liaison. I smiled, unsure myself.

‘And…I know you all think that I made up Adam…but I didn’t.’ She turned to face me. ‘I mean, when I said I was seeing him, I wasn’t actually going on dates with him, but he was real.’ Her eyebrows were furrowed. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’ Vera began to serve, gesturing at me to help.

‘Of course. Tell me about him.’ I picked a ladle to serve the curiously watery sauce.

As she drained the pasta, I saw Vera’s shoulders relax. She looked upwards, smiling, the waves of her hair reaching to the small of her back. I realised her hair was well-styled, and quite beautiful. I opened my mouth to say something.

‘I have never told anyone any of this….’ Vera handed me my plate, which was cold. ‘If I tell you, you mustn’t say anything…’

‘Promise.’ I corrected myself: ‘Unless it has a bearing on your job. It doesn’t, does it?’

‘No. Do you ever fucking relax?!’

I laughed. ‘Then it stays between us.’

I watched Vera as she talked, noted how she juxtaposed long, thoughtful pauses with outpourings that lasted several minutes. At times, she would appear to seek my viewpoint, using me perhaps, as a moral compass. At other times, my opinion had no bearing, the acts perhaps too much of a fait accompli. She spoke as much with her hands as with her words, her middle finger languorously tracing along the stem of her wine glass as she described Adam’s unerring ability to capture her attention, even in the shortest of messages, then, with both hands in the air, her long fingers expressive and taut, she explained how they had lapsed into an addictive pattern of talking late into the night. Adam, I concluded, was real, as was Vera’s visceral attraction to him.

They had met on the internet, not on a dating site, Vera was keen to point out. The absence of her explanation of how exactly they had met was marked by Vera taking a slow, deliberate drink from her glass. She refilled both our glasses, the bottle already almost empty. I remained quiet, attentive, wanting her to steer the conversation in the way that she felt most comfortable. What people choose to tell us and what they omit, the order of the points, which points are subordinate to others, is as interesting as the guilty, viscous detail of what it is they have done with and to one another.

Vera oscillated from seeking to identify the precise moment when she realised that they had reached a point of no return, to a nebulous, confusing account of who had initially incited whom.

‘I was going to end it, whatever it was that we were doing….then he sent me this photo…. I was walking to the garage to get something, and it just….stopped me in my tracks….’

When she gesticulates with her hands, the well-defined muscles in her arm are visible under her cardigan. I think how perfectly she could fuck a woman.

‘….And I’m looking at this ridiculously hot jawline…. But more than that, it was the way he knew exactly what he was doing to me with that picture….and it was in this innocuous conversation about some book we were both reading…but he knew….why are you looking at me like that?’

I had been too quiet.

Vera pointed at me as she held her wine glass. ‘You’re judging me….’

‘No. I’m not.’

‘You’re worried about me.’

‘No…this is still going on, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Another long gulp of the wine. I put my hand on hers as she reached for the bottle.

‘Do you really need to drink to be able to talk to me?’ Vera let go of the bottle. ‘Will you stay over?’

‘Not unless you have every skin care product in the Clinique range, no….but I’ll stay as long as you want me to.’ ‘Sorry…I’ve been talking on and on. Is there someone in your life at the moment?’

‘There’s nothing to talk about… so do you think you’ll actually meet up with him?’

Vera picked up our two glasses and collected another bottle of wine from an attractive wrought iron rack. ‘Let’s go through to the lounge.’

I followed her into a tidy, soulless room, where two sofas were placed against separate walls, technically perpendicular to one another, but far apart, disparate. I hesitated. Vera slumped down into one of the sofas, near the middle. ‘Sit here.’

The large, soft sofa swallowed me as I sank into it. Vera put her head on my shoulder. ‘Can I really just….tell you about him….?’

I kissed her hair. ‘Of course.’

I felt my phone vibrate. Careful not to cause Vera to move, I reached into my pocket to look at the screen. It was an email from Joan. As I breathed in the smell of Vera’s hair, my heart racing in my chest, my treacherous thumb swiped, switching the phone off.


End file.
